Speak No Evil_ A Novel - Allison Brennan [104]
Mrs. Burns lived in a small, post–World War II cinder-block house in a quiet neighborhood. By the looks of the automobiles and neatly trimmed lawns, most of the houses’ owners were original, and were now well past retirement age. The houses that had changed hands were split between would-be mechanics with multiple cars in various states of assembly in oil-stained driveways, and young families with kids’ toys as lawn art behind chain-link fences.
Carina looked at the DMV report she’d run while driving to the University City home. “Regina Burns has two cars registered in her name, a 1996 Camaro and a 1990 Taurus.”
The house was dark and there were no cars in the driveway.
“What about Brandon Burns?”
“I’m waiting for a call back to see if there is another licensed driver at this address,” Carina said. “The registration database is separate from the licensed driver database.”
A sense of déjà vu filled Nick. The last time he’d gone up to a house where he hadn’t expected to find anything, he’d been attacked. He glanced at Carina, fearing he was growing paranoid. She looked alert, but calm. The events last year might be clouding his judgment, and he didn’t want to make another mistake. The thought of risking Carina’s life through his missteps was foolish, he knew: she was a trained cop, she knew what she was doing. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to go wrong.
They approached the house cautiously. Carina knocked on the door, then took a step back. No movement in the house. No sound whatsoever.
“Let’s talk to the neighbors,” Carina said finally. “Maybe someone knows when Regina Burns is expected home, or something about her kids.”
The house to the right of the Burns residence was brightly lit, the television loud enough to wake the dead. Carina rapped loudly on the door. No answer. She peered through the window, then used the doorbell multiple times.
A full minute later, the television went from ear-shattering to loud, and the door flew open. Instinctively, Nick’s hand rested on his gun. Towering over both of them was a sixty-something bald man with a large beer belly, to match his breath.
“What?”
Carina identified herself and Nick, learned the neighbor was Ray Grimski, then asked, “We’re looking for Regina Burns, your neighbor.”
The man narrowed his eyes, took a step out onto the small porch, shaking his head. “Don’t know where that bitch is. Probably working.”
“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Burns?”
He shrugged. “Whenever. Last week, maybe. I don’t know. She left Friday or Saturday. She works for a cruise line. Don’t know what she does for them and I don’t care. But she’s gone a week or more at a time, which is fine by me.”
“You don’t get along with her?”
“Hell no.”
“How long have you been neighbors?”
“Ever since she moved in six or seven years ago. Old-man Krauss croaked and his kids put the old woman in a nursing home, sold the house, and split the money, the fucking brats. She died there, don’t think those girls ever even visited.”
Carina and Nick glanced at each other. Sometimes, values weren’t evidenced by appearance.
“What about Regina Burns’s sons?”
“Sons? Oh, right, she has an older son. Don’t know his name. He goes to that college on the coast, I think. Works at a restaurant. Temper. Never comes by when she’s around. Sometimes he comes over to pick up the kid, Brandon. Last time I saw him with his mother was over a year ago. Maybe longer. They got in a huge shouting match. Thought he’d strangle her. The kid came out, everything sort of stopped, and the older kid took off.”
“Do you remember what the argument was about?”
Grimski shrugged, scratched his hefty stomach. “That was ages ago. But that woman has a temper, too.”
“Does she abuse her son?”
“Don’t know. Never saw anything like that.”
“You talk a lot to the younger boy? Brandon?”
“I hired him to fix my back fence. He’s pretty handy. I’ve paid him for odd jobs, though he doesn’t seem to have time anymore. He